The Second of April
by VengefulMothSlayer
Summary: It will always be the second of april for them. (Time travel AU)


**This was not meant to be anywhere near as depressing as it ended up. Good job, Slayer, you took **_**Back to the Future**_** and did your level best to turn it into a tearjerker. **

**Enjoy, my squidlings~ **

**The Second of April**

_April 2__nd__, 2010. _

"What are you doing here?" the old man asked, eyebrows drawn together in a disapproving frown. "Nobody ever comes this way."

Alfred noticed, idly, that the guy had a crisp, British accent. Not sure where in Britain it was from, but it was certainly a welcome change from the constant run of Deep South drawls he'd been getting thus far. Alfred, with his thick Bronx accent, stuck out like a sore thumb.

Out here, 10 miles from Reston, deep in the heat of Virginia, where the accents are as broad as the waaahde-oooowpehn spaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaysus, Alfred had kind of expected to have a house to himself. But there they were, two small cottages within shouting distance of each other, sitting neatly at the end of a long, winding driveway.

Alfred was pretty sure he owned the one on the right-hand side, but as they were practically identical, it was hard to tell.

"Well? Are you just going to ignore me?" the Brit was still standing a few feet from his car, hands on his hips, glaring. He looked nearly 100, but he didn't need a Zimmer frame or anything, so Alfred was pretty sure he counted as spry.

"Oh, no, sir, course not. I'm Alfred," he said, proffering a hand. "Alfred F. Jones."

The guy tilted his head and cocked an eyebrow when he spoke. "You're not from around here," he observed. "Your accent isn't right."

Alfred smirked. "You're not from around here, either," he said, mimicking the absurd accent. "Straaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaynger."

The old guy's mouth twitched. He snorted, and shook Alfred's hand. "Arthur Kirkland," he said. "It's actually a pleasure to meet you. Do you like tea?"

"Don't mind it," Alfred replied easily.

Arthur nodded, a quick, almost birdlike movement, to go with his thin, almost birdlike frame. "I like you," he said decisively. "Come in."

_April 2__nd__, 1965_

Alfred opened his eyes, coughing a little at the dust the trip had shaken up. Form the looks of it, he was still in his basement- but not the same one.

His 2015 workshop was a mess, with bits and pieces of metal and paper for his machine lying everywhere. This version of the basement was empty, but full of dust.

He'd done it. (Not bad for an accidental trip)

He cast a practiced eye over the machine in question, noting the glowing dial. The date, according to it, was 1965. So if the machine was right, the jump had worked perfectly.

He leant further over it, passing his hands over the chambers and pumps in the engine, before his fingernail finally caught on a tiny, hairline crack in the fizzrocket.

He closed his eyes, trying to pretend this wasn't happening. Replacing the fizzrocket, with none of his spare parts, materials and tools, or even his blueprints, was going to take years.

He was going to be stuck in the 60s for _years_.

_April 2__nd__, 2010_

"I think I'm onto something, Arthur!"

"About time," Arthur said, leaning back and taking a long, luxurious sip. "You've been here, what, 5 years?"

Alfred smiled. "It could have taken a lot longer than that, Artie," he said.

"Don't patronise me, boy," Arthur said. "You know I write science fiction. I know these things."

"Science fiction is nothing like science fact, Arthur," Alfred said.

"That's immaterial. You natter at me about science fact 7 days a week. I know all about science fact. You've sullied my perfectly far-fetched and silly novels with your thrice-accursed logic, damn you" Arthur said stubbornly.

"Your stories still don't make any sense, Artie."

"And a good thing, too. People don't read science fiction because it makes sense, they read it because it sounds interesting. The less sense and the more fizzrockets there are, the happier your audience is."

"And just for that, I'm renaming something a fizzrocket."

"Excellent. I'm corrupting you, like I always said I would. Besides, you're building a time machine, lad. It wouldn't be right without fizzrockets."

"You know, Arthur," Alfred replied seriously, "I think you might be right."

"I usually am."

"Well," Alfred got up and stretched. "You've got your not-so-silly book to write, and I've got fizzrockets to rename. We'd better not sit around procrasturbating."

"Don't think I didn't catch that, boy. I know where that meme comes from. There's a reason Spider-man isn't on the Avengers."

Alfred smiled, pausing before he shut the door. "You're awesome, Arthur."

"Splendid, awe-inspiring, breathtaking and marvellous, boy. Not awesome."

"Of course not, Arthur. You could never be merely awesome."

_April 2__nd__, 1965_

"What are you doing here?" the young man asked, eyebrows drawn together in a disapproving frown. "Nobody ever comes this way."

Alfred noticed, idly, that Arthur's accent and stance hadn't changed a bit. He was still standing, birdlike and thin, a few feet away with his hands on his hips.

Arthur's hair was crazy, pale and blonde. His eyebrows were still massive, but his green eyes were brighter now, and his skin was pale and smooth.

It was strange, how little he had changed. He must be in his late twenties, and yet he still dressed like an old man.

"Well? Are you just going to ignore me?" Alfred snapped of his reverie, quickly stepping forward.

"Oh, no, sir, course not. I'm Alfred," he said, proffering a hand. "Alfred F. Jones."

The guy tilted his head and cocked an eyebrow when he spoke. "You're not from around here," he observed. "Your accent isn't right."

Alfred smiled. Arthur really hadn't changed a bit.

"You're not from around here, either," he said, mimicking the absurd accent. "Straaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaynger."

Arthur smiled, and it was like the sun breaking through the clouds. Obviously he was nowhere near as mean as the old Arthur, Alfred internally noted. He snorted, and shook Alfred's hand.

"Arthur Kirkland," he said. "It's actually a pleasure to meet you. Do you like tea?"

"Don't mind it," Alfred replied easily.

Arthur nodded, the quick, almost birdlike movement that Alfred recognised from the 21st century. "I like you," he said decisively. "Come in."

The two cottages sat, side by side, at the end of a long, winding drive. They hadn't changed in the fifty years before he came.

_April 2__nd__, 1970_

"It's been five years since you came here, Alfred," Arthur said. "Are you ever going to go back?"

Alfred smiled. "I'm not sure I want to, Artie."

Arthur frowned. "The only reason anyone comes here is because they're running away from someone, or because-"

"They don't think there's anyone running after them," Alfred finished. "You really like that, don't you?"

Arthur shook his head. "You know what I'm like, Alfred. You must have spent 10 years as my neighbour, all up. I'm missing you, but I won't do anything about it. After all, I know why you left."

Alfred nodded. "But I still don't really want to go back."

Arthur cocked his head, the birdlike movement causing a warm feeling to rise up in Alfred's chest. "Why?"

Alfred looked down at his toes. "You know, it's been exactly 5 years since I came here, to the day."

"I know."

Alfred reached out and brushed a stray strand of yellow-blond hair out of Arthur's eyes. "I like the company," he said.

Arthur's tiny smile gleamed.

_April 2__nd__, 1971_

Alfred scooped Arthur's thin frame onto his chest. "Nightmare?" he asked in a whisper.

Arthur buried his nose in the crook of Alfred's neck. "Yes," he breathed.

The corners of Alfred's mouth tightened. It had been 6 years, and yet Arthur still thought he was going to leave.

Didn't he know that Arthur was everything to him?

"It's not going to happen," he said, kissing the top or Arthur's head and pulling the covers over both of them so they were huddled in a dark, warm tent. "I promise."

Arthur shook his head. "I write science fiction, you know," he said. "I know these things."

"Science _fiction_," Alfred reminded him gently. "Not science fact."

Arthur shook his head. "I know these things," he insisted. "You came here from another time. You will leave here soon."

Alfred smoothed a lock of hair from Arthur's eyes, not sure what to say to that.

_April 2__nd__, 1974_

"Why does everything happen on April the second?" Arthur asked him, leaning on his shoulder and staring up at the sky. "Whether for better or for worse, it's always April the second."

Alfred stayed silent, trying to memories the feeling of Arthur leaning against him on the crisp, spring night.

"I have to leave," he finally said.

Arthur bit his lip.

"… I told you so," he said, limply.

"It's to do with rules, and time, and space. I can't stay, because I can't be in two places at once."

Arthur nodded. "I told you, I know. I write science fiction. I spend a lot of time thinking about these things."

Alfred smiled bitterly. "Yes. You do."

They sat in silence for a moment, each struggling to pretend Alfred didn't have to leave.

"It's because of the space-time continuum," Alfred said. "If I exist in one place, I cannot also be in another. It doesn't matter how old I am. And besides, in 2010 I'm going to move in next door. I have no idea what would happen if I met myself, but it would be bad."

Arthur chewed on his lip.

"How long do we have?" he asked quietly.

Alfred shrugged. "A year. I have to fix the fizzrocket, so I'll need at least a year."

Arthur nodded. "A year."

He took Alfred's hand. "Do you like tea?"

Alfred leant down and kissed him on the lips. "Don't mind it," he breathed, trying not to feel the tear trickling down his cheek.

"I like you," Arthur murmured, stroking it away with just the tip of a finger, a wistful smile on his lips. "Come in."

_April 2__nd__, 1975_

"It feels like a dream," Arthur whispered, peering at the machine.

"Don't worry, Arthur, it's not forever. I'll be back in a few years."

Arthur smiled, and tried to pretend he wasn't crying.

"No, Alfred," he said. "That's not how these things work. I'm never going to see you again."

"No. I'll come back for you," Alfred said. "We'll rendezvous on the 2nd. Can you make it a year after I've left? Please?"

Arthur kissed him on the cheek. "Of course. We'll meet on the second. Like always."

"You're awesome, Arthur," Alfred said.

Arthur shook his head slowly, and pulled him into a hug. "Splendid, awe-inspiring, breathtaking and marvellous, love. Not awesome."

"Of course not, Arthur. You could never be merely awesome."

The machine left a circle of dust in the floor when he left, and Arthur just stood there staring at it for a moment.

The sound of his tears hitting the floor was muffled by the dust.

He caught himself hoping that Alfred would change his mind and come back.

But he wasn't stupid. He wrote science fiction. He knew that Alfred would never come back.

He just knew these things.

_April 2__nd__, 2015_

The door clicked shut after Alfred, and Arthur let himself sigh. They had come full circle, now. The game was up.

He let himself glance at the manuscript on the table next to him. The first page, in big, bold letters, said "THE SECOND OF APRIL, or, THE TIME TRAVELLER".

_April 2__nd__, 2016_

Arthur had broken his promise.

Then again, he'd always said that they'd never see each other again. Alfred had never believed him, but Arthur knew more about that sort of thing than he did.

He probably should have listened.

Arthur's grave was made of black marble, and knowing Arthur, there was nobody at his funeral. The tombstone, in big, bold letters, said:

_Arthur Kirkland, _

_2__nd__ April 1945- 2__nd__ April 2015_

_What are you doing here? Nobody ever comes this way. _

_April 2__nd__, 2010_

"The only reason anyone comes here is because they're running away from someone, or because they don't think there's anyone running after them," Arthur said, watching Alfred from across the table and lifting a single eyebrow. "Which are you?"

Alfred shook his head. "Both, I think," he said. "I'm running away from being alone."

Arthur shook his head. "Well, you picked the wrong place to do that."

"Which are you?" Alfred asked curiously.

"Neither," Arthur said, staring pensively into his tea. "I'm waiting for someone."

_April 2__nd__, 2020_

Alfred sat beside the grave, talking, like he had on Arthur's birthday every day since he'd come back.

"I found the book, you know," he said. "I read the dedication."

"And you were right. You always were."

_Alfred, _

_This, my last book, is for you. _

_I never told you that I loved you, even though I did. I hope you knew, anyway. _

_In any case, I want you to know that just because I'm not there to rename things, doesn't mean you get out of giving them silly titles. _

_And the fizzrockets stay. You're building a time machine, love. It wouldn't be right without fizzrockets._

_I write science fiction. Believe me, I know these things. _

_-Arthur_


End file.
